


Epilogue

by jawsandbones



Series: Ficlits [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Heavy Angst, M/M, big ole angst warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 09:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15927221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: The Warden sets a price for the removal of the taint. Zevran is the one who pays it.---A golden painted palm against his cheek, a thumb pressed to his forehead. A burning, as he moves it, paints a twisted vallaslin. More than skin deep, and Surana doesn’t speak it, but he knows his soul marked. A life for a life. A god takes away the taint in his veins, and he thinks he knows the price he’s paying. “You are mine,” Elgar’nan tells him, “you will come when I call.”





	Epilogue

A golden painted palm against his cheek, a thumb pressed to his forehead. A burning, as he moves it, paints a twisted _vallaslin_. More than skin deep, and Surana doesn’t speak it, but he knows his soul marked. A life for a life. A god takes away the taint in his veins, and he thinks he knows the price he’s paying. “You are mine,” Elgar’nan tells him, “you will come when I call.” Zevran, his hand in his, holding it tightly, turning a worried glance towards him. Surana does not look away from the god before him, puts his other fist to his chest, and bows low. Such disdain in his eyes, for these poor imitations of elves.

There was no other choice. Zevran had woken one morning, turned to face him. Sun shining on his cheek, in his hair, softly sleeping. A smile, as he slipped his hand underneath his shirt, raised it, intending to press kisses to his shoulder blades. Instead his fingertips had traced webbed lines, poisoned veins. Stains over scars, under skin, and Zevran had pressed his face against his back and sobbed. They had run out of time. A price. A cost.

They had been unleashed to kill a wolf. Now, they refuse to sleep. Naïve, to think that Elgar’nan and the rest would have been put back in their cage before the price could be paid. For the first time in years, Zevran had woken without Surana by his side. It had started as a churning worry in his gut. Some spreading horror that only grew with each passing day. He had searched everywhere, until, word reached him.

The Warden.

The Hero of Ferelden.

The General of Elgar’nan’s armies.

He had called. Surana had answered. Zevran chases him west. They are not hard to follow. The world was once theirs. They believe it will be again. Zevran doesn’t care. He just wants his Warden back. There are whispers on the streets. The Evanuris walk into a city. They call for their devoted. Out of the woods, Dalish with glowing _vallaslin_ come. They thought they were honoring their gods, and instead, they gave them the keys to their control. Tattoos that laid dormant until gods walked the earth once again.

Elgar’nan looks at him with the same disdain now, as he did then. Lounging back on his throne, touched by wild magic. The centuries spent in the Fade have not been kind. Twisted by demon and spirit alike, stitching them to his very being. Zevran doesn’t look at him, but the one who stands beside him. They have dressed him in gold, and on his forehead, the painted _vallaslin_ shines. Somehow, seeing it feels worse than seeing the taint in his back. “ _Caro_ ,” he says, extending his hand forward, “come to me.”

“You dare try and take him from me?” Elgar’nan leans forward. That solitary horn at the left side of his face, the eye that glows red. The other, a perfect yellow. Long, lithe limbs, filled with strength. The magic has long been in his bones, a power unmatched, untouchable, and the orb underneath one of his palms. Zevran keeps his chin high. Around him, the court watches. Elves, muted and chained. Puppets, marionettes, but he cannot save all of them. Not today. Only one.

“ _Caro_ ,” he says again, keeps his hand out. Surana looks at him, through him, turns to Elgar’nan. Rising from his throne, down those stairs, heavy and echoing footsteps. He stands before him, towers over him. Zevran refuses to cower. In the silence, they stare at each other. Zevran knows he cannot kill this one. It’s why he didn’t come along. Outside the ruined hall, a horn sounds. Ferelden, Orlais, Inquisition. A horde awaits. Elves begin to empty the hall, to face these challengers, as Elgar’nan thunders displeasure.

He turns to Surana. “Deal with this one, and then return to my side.” His leaving is a weight lifted, but Zevran knows they have little time. Surana is walking down the steps of the throne. Drawing an empty hilt, and with a twitch of his shoulders, the sword ignites. Made of lightning, and magic, a hum of intensity. Surana’s eyes are blank, his orders given, and so he will obey. Zevran’s hand falls back to his side. Two hilts. Two daggers. Knuckles white as he holds them tightly.

He had faced this battle once before. On a field of green, when they were both so young. “I told you once,” Zevran says, “I am your man, without reservation. Always. Please do not make me do this, _mi amor_. I do not want to do this.” He can’t stop his voice from cracking. Surana’s steps quicken, racing forward, an arc of light against the stone floor as he attacks forward. Zevran raises the right dagger, catches it. Twisting the arcane blade past him as he strikes forward with the left dagger.

Surana steps back, bringing the blade around, forcing Zevran to duck. Wisps of hair fall, long hair not quite so long anymore. Zevran rolls forward, makes a swipe for Surana’s feet. If he could only get the tendon – lighting buries itself before him and Zevran bounces back. They are back to the beginning, facing each other. As they circle one another, they can hear it outside. Two armies clash, and they don’t know which side is winning.

“I know you do not want this. Your family is waiting for you,” Zevran tells him. A twitch, in Surana’s ears. Flattening slightly, a sign that he is listening. “Fight this, _amor_.” Gesturing at his forehead. “It is unbecoming, belonging to someone else.” Crossing his daggers, shielding himself from the blow. The arcane sword shines brightly, cracks with ribbons of lightning.

“You are stronger than this,” Zevran says as they struggle. Pushing back against the blade that presses down, and for now, they stand in place, the both of them unable to break. He’s never fought fairly. Kicking out, smashing the heel of his boot against Surana’s knee. Staggering back, and he looks to take advantage, but – a streak of lightning flies past his head, smashes into the post behind him. Marble crumbles, the pillar crumbles with it, and Zevran is still moving forward. Surana moves at the last second as the dagger whizzes by his cheek, leaves a red line. It heals without effort.

“Rémi!” Surana recoils, at the sound of his name. “Break free of this!” Instead, a dash forward, the blade sweeping, and in his other hand, the flame. Flickering light against his face, the emptiness in his eyes. There’s only one choice. Zevran flips the dagger in his hand, dashes forward. Catching the sword with one, stretching forward with the other. Rémi hisses pain as metal buries itself in his shoulder, that soft spot between his armor, but the arm goes dead and the flame with it. Zevran twists the blade, hates the sound of his scream in his ears.

“I know, _amor_ , bear with it for me,” he says. Wrenching it free, kicking Rémi back. Zevran keeps him off balance. A well place slash here. The stab, just there. They wound each other. Where the arcane blade touches Zevran, a scar of unique pattern. Scars of white that crisscross from the wound, a winding maze of magic. They exhaust each other. Panting with heavy breath, movements that begin to slow. Rémi has the advantage he’s always had. His wounds heal with a thought, reaching into his deep well of magic.

He casts aside the hilt, and the blade goes dim. Instead, the lightning stretches between fingertips. Dashing forward, hands outstretched. He ignores the dagger put through his palm, and holds it by the hilt. “Zevran,” hoarse, cracked, broken, choked effort, crimson on his lips. The other dagger, in his side, his belly. The magic disintegrates, fades into nothing as he falls to his knees, as Zevran falls with him.  

“Rémi,” he says, wide eyed. Taking him into his arms, holding him close. He’s healed from worse than this. Why isn’t he healing? Brushing back the strands of hair twisted in sweat, hands clammy against his cheek. The vallaslin still shines. Such confusion, in his brows. A caught question in them, blinking as he looks up at Zevran. His lips are moving, some distant sound, and Zevran isn’t sure if he’s trying to say _thank you_ or ask him _why_.

“You were holding back,” Zevran says bitterly as the tears roll down, “why were you holding back? You could have killed me, a thousand times over.” He squeezes him tightly. “You always do this _Caro_ , letting me live when I do not deserve it.”

The vallaslin turns to ash. Crumbling at the edges, falling away. “You and I knew there was no other way.” Zevran’s always loved the green of his eyes. It isn’t relief, to see them now. “Don’t look so sad. I’ve had… a good life… celebrate it for me…?” A smile and Rémi reaches up, trembling fingertips on Zevran’s lips. “Thank you. For everything. I love you… so, so, much. My heart.” Zevran catches his hand when it falls.

The battle still rages, outside. It doesn’t matter. Zevran rocks slowly back and forth, Rémi held tenderly in his arms. Cradling him close, so carefully, gently. His chin shakes, his eyes squeezed closed. Forehead pressed against forehead, and the tears fall from Zevran’s cheeks, onto Rémi’s. It builds inside of him, that scratching horror, screams from his lips. He screams until he can scream no more, throat bloody and raw. He holds him so tightly, and his heart beats so loudly, that for a moment, he can almost pretend it’s Rémi’s heart that beats instead. He cries, and Rémi cannot wipe his tears away. Not this time. Not anymore.

They had slept together in the same tent, after Zevran had given him the earring. Side by side, facing each other. Rémi had slept so soundly. Listening to the soft sounds of dreams, steady breathing, and their hands clasped between them. Zevran had studied the lines of his face from the curve of his nose to the swell of his lips. Long dark lashes, and when he woke in the morning, the green underneath. Rémi had smiled at the sight of him, so close, leaned in for the kiss. Laughing at the sleep on his breath, limbs tangling together.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend. Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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